Coppers Are Coppers
by allofmyheart
Summary: A little oneshot crossover for anyone else who has noticed some similarities between members of our favourite CID and Ankh-Morpork’s finest. My two favourite policemen have a chat…


**Many thanks to RedSkyAtNight76 for corrections and valuable comments.**

**I'd love your reviews; sorry for not replying to those people who reviewed my other story, I was new and didn't know the etiquette.**

It was a pub, the kind of pub which exists on almost every world in the multiverse with only minimal differences to indicate where in particular it might be. It was small, dark, smoky, and inhabited by the kind of drinkers whose main concern is to drink, mind their own business, and ensure that no-one else takes too much notice of them.

The two men were the same height, the same build. One was about forty-five, with a square jaw, dirty-blond collar-length hair, and piercing blue eyes. The other was perhaps ten years older, his face more lined; the short-cropped dark hair was grizzled, the eyes grey. They moved, watched each other, in the same way. Neither of them looked as though they smiled very often.

Now they eyed each other in cautious recognition. The younger one spoke. "You're…?"

"Yes. Sam Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch." That was all that mattered, the name and the job. He hated the other titles. Just occasionally they were useful, but he was sure that with this man, nothing could have impressed him less. And that was a good thing.

"DCI Gene Hunt". The younger man offered his hand and they shook, somewhat reservedly. Hunt was frowning, unsettled; he took a pace away, then turned back abruptly towards Vimes. "Look, do you know what the bloody hell's been going on here?" he demanded belligerently.

"Possibly," Vimes replied carefully. "Tell me a bit more about it." He reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a dented silver cigar case. Hunt eyed it: on anyone else, he would have thought 'flash git', but this thing was so battered, and the rest of the man's appearance so workmanlike and unshowy, that he did not.

"Smoke?" The cigar case was offered. Hunt took a thin cigar: the label read 'Pantweeds Slim Panatellas'. _Never heard of them, _he thought, but then he'd seen a lot of things in the past few days that he'd never heard of before. Seen things, or dreamed or imagined them. Vimes offered him a light. He took a drag at the cigar. _Not bad. _Calming down a little, he exhaled slowly, pouting, trying to find the words for what had been happening. "Look, I think I've been… living your life, lately. Or dreaming it. Seeing it, anyway."

To his relief, the other man nodded. "Yes. Me too. Seeing your life, I mean."

Hunt raised his eyebrows. "What, my patch? My team?"

"Yes. Look, don't worry about it. Something a bit like that happened to me once before. Something to do with magic, I think… libraries…monks. Whatever. Best not to worry about it. Sorts itself out in the end."

Hunt exhaled through pursed lips. "That's a relief. Thought I was going flamin' mad at first." He frowned, trying to frame his thoughts into words. He didn't like to admit he was surprised by anything, but… "Bloody odd world you live in," he managed at last. "All that… magic and stuff. And some of the…er… people". He supposed they were people. For want of a better word. He took another pull on the cigar. "Never seen anything like it."

Vimes too inhaled smoke, then looked up, his eyes narrowed. "Haven't you?"

For a moment Hunt was taken aback, but almost immediately he understood what the other man meant. "Well," he conceded, "now you mention it, I s'pose there are similarities. With the job, I mean. Scum's scum, wherever you go."

"And coppers are coppers."

Hunt nodded. "And you and me are…"

"…the same kind of coppers" Vimes finished the sentence for him. Their eyes met momentarily, establishing an understanding.

Hunt indicated the bar. "Drink?"

"Lemonade."

The blue eyes flashed questioningly, but Hunt made no comment. He went to the bar and returned with a lemonade and a beer. They sat, cautiously, on either side of a small table.

"It's the instincts," Hunt declared a short time later, warming to his subject as the beer began to take effect. "Gut feelings. Sometimes, you go somewhere or meet someone and you just know like _that" – _he snapped his fingers at the side of his head – "that something's not right."

"Yes," Vimes agreed. "When you've done the job this long, you _know…_And then you dig and dig until you find out what's really been going on."

"Mmm."

"It's the city, too," Vimes continued. I know the city. Put me anywhere in that city, even in the dark, blindfolded, and I can tell you where I am. _And_ when there's someone following me." He gave a humourless smile. "That's a skill coppers learn or they don't last long."

Hunt laughed. "Yeah."

"And…" Vimes blew smoke, trying to find the words, "you can _read_ the city. It tells you things. Sometimes it's literally the writing on the wall… sometimes it's what people are saying – or not saying – or it's just a feeling you get, you can't explain how. You can tell when people are scared, or angry… you just get an idea of what's going to happen."

"Mmm," Hunt sipped his beer. "I used to be like that, in Manchester. That was my city. In London…" He shrugged. "I'm still learning it."

Vimes looked at him searchingly. _Gods, I'd hate that. A new city. I couldn't do it. You've got my respect there. _

There was a moment's silence, then Hunt sniffed and commented: "That boss of yours. Vetinari. Strange bloke."

Vimes grimaced. "Yes." 'Strange' didn't begin to describe the Patrician, he thought. He'd got used to him, over the years, but could never quite reconcile himself to the man's calculating, emotionless outlook. It was so alien to Vimes, a man whose frame of reference was firmly rooted, not in his head, but his gut.

Hunt took another swig of beer and continued. "Seems to trust you though, most of the time. Lets you get on and do it your way. I wish my so-called superiors would do the same."

"Well, that's true. Yours did seem like a bunch of…" Vimes stopped himself, coughed. The glimpses he'd seen of Hunt's superiors had not impressed him. Bloody thorn in the flesh, working for people like that, he thought.

"…Interfering tits who wouldn't recognise a real criminal if he jumped out of their poncey golf bag, stole their bollocks and shagged their wife on the way out?" Hunt finished the sentence for him. Vimes grinned. "Yes. You could say that."

"Oh, I do. I frequently do." Hunt drained the end of his pint and gestured to Vimes' unfinished drink. "Want another?" Vimes shook his head. "No, thanks." There was no point in drinking the stuff quickly when it was just lemonade. No point in drinking it at all, in fact.

Hunt went to the bar and returned with a glass of whisky. Vimes could smell the alluring scent of the single malt. _Damn. You never stop wanting it. You just stop saying yes._

Hunt swirled the whisky in the glass, took a sniff of it. He sipped, savoured, put the glass down on the table. "Course, you're a lot higher up than me. Top of the tree. Got a bigger team."

"Yes," replied Vimes somewhat bitterly. "The Watch keeps getting bigger every day. Good of course… we need them, gods know, there's enough for them to do out there… but…" he took a deep breath. He'd never actually said the thought out loud to anyone before. "I feel more and more… cut off from it. The actual policing. I'm not often a real copper any more."

"Mmm". A grunt of understanding. "Don't want to lose that. S'what makes it worthwhile. Getting out there, catching the bastards."

"And it just seems to make more and more paperwork…" Vimes grimaced again.

"Paperwork? Huh." Hunt gave a derisive snort.

_Yes, that's the difference, _thought Vimes with a touch of envy. _I hate it, but some guilty part of me still thinks I should do it, get on top of it. You just don't care. Lucky bastard._

"My Captain seems to think I should do it. Always one for the modern methods of policing, Carrot. Reports, technomancy…Very – er – forward-thinking." A pause. "Idealistic, too, although Ankh-Morpork is gradually managing to knock some of that out of him…"

Hunt nodded. "I had one like that. New ideas, always wanting to do it by the book. 'Standard procedures', he called it. Drove me up the wall." A pause; exhalation of smoke. "Bloody good copper, though."

"Yes."

Hunt swirled the whisky once more, staring absently into the drink. "He was good for me, too," he admitted eventually. "Y'know what you said about us being the same kind of coppers?" Assent from Vimes. "It's not true," Hunt continued, "not really. I've heard what they say about you – straight as a die, can't be bribed, can't be turned. Straight-up Sam Vimes."

Vimes grimaced, "Yes, unfortunately they usually preface it with 'not the sharpest knife in the drawer'…"

Hunt grinned, but continued: "Never mind that. The honesty, that's what matters. You've got principles. So've I, but… I lost sight of them here and there, for a while." He was gazing at nothing. "Taking backhanders, fitting people up… I though it was the best way to keep the streets clean. Oh, and it works, in its way, but… it's not the answer. Not really. We can't just play them at their own game, we need to do better than that. _Be _better. Be clean. Sam helped me to see that."

Vimes couldn't think of anything to say; the other man seemed to be talking more to himself in any case.

"But then I lost him. Got himself killed." The tone of voice was bitter with strangled emotion. Vimes looked up. Hunt was gazing into the depths of his glass.

"The one in the newspaper? On your office wall? Tyler?"

"Yeah." The answer was heavy.

The older man winced at the shared thought. "I've lost a few over the years. Cuddy, Stronginthearm… others." _Too many, _he realised. _Far too many._ "Maybe not like Carrot or Tyler, but…good lads." He sipped the lemonade. _What am I talking about? One is one too many._ "They didn't deserve to go."

There was a hard edge to Hunt's voice as he replied. "It's a bastard when you lose one."

A moment's silence: understanding. "Yes."

"I nearly lost another one, just recently. Almost lost her… very close. Too close. Girl. Shaz. You know her?"

Vimes nodded. Hunt continued.

"She's a good girl. Bright girl. Bit like your Cheery, but without all the issues." He received a nod of acknowledgement and a slight smile.

"Took me a while to work that one out, by the way. Cheery. You know, what with the makeup, and the, er...the beard."

Vimes concurred. "Tell me about it. Not surprising she has issues, really."

"No". A wry grin. "At least I don't have any staff like that to contend with. Not to mention that blonde bird… Can she really….?"

"Turn into a wolf? Yes, really. It can be very useful. And she's got very good instincts. You know, whichever shape she's in."

"Yeah, she seemed like a bright one. Bit… I dunno, though. Bit edgy."

"Yes, I think it's hard for her, living in the city. For a while she kept talking about going. But she doesn't really belong back where she came from, either. That woman in your team reminded me of her, actually. Drake. Alex Drake."

Hunt looked up sharply. "Drake? What about her?"

"Well, you know… Both very clever, obviously talented, great at the job… but a bit out of place. Mind obviously somewhere else, sometimes. Doesn't quite seem to belong… or doesn't think she does, anyway. She kept saying something about leaving…that she'd have to go home…"

He saw the younger man's face darken; a momentary flash of pain in the eyes before it was replaced by stoniness. "Yes. She does say that. Silly cow."

_Ah. So that's how it is. Well, I don't blame him. In a world with no Carrot and no Sybil…_A long pause. Drinks sipped, smoke exhaled. The subject was getting close to one which men preferred to skirt around. Vimes wanted to be sure he had it right, though.

"You're… not married." It was more of a statement than a question.

"No." Quietly, matter-of-fact. Then defiantly: "Not any more."

Vimes . "I…"

"Yeah, I know. I've seen them: your wife, your kid." The blue eyes raised, meeting Vimes'. The next statement seemed like an unwilling admission. "You're lucky."

"I know." There was complete conviction in Vimes' face. _Bloody lucky. You don't need to tell me. I never deserved anything as good as them. _

Hunt read the sincerity, instinctively understood the other feelings too. You couldn't begrudge the man what he had… and yet… Abruptly, he changed the subject.

"That Colon and Nobby though – what a pair of divs! Talk about making timewasting into a fine art. Never seen anything like it." Once again the grey eyes met his: the question did not need to be spoken. "Well, all right, maybe I 'ave. You're thinking of bloody Chris and Ray, aren't you? Yeah, you're probably right… largely. Even Chris isn't that bad, though. I mean, he's a dozy twonk, but at least he doesn't carry a certificate to prove he's human." Hunt grinned wickedly for a moment; he couldn't resist it. "Mind you – might be an idea, eh?"

Vimes smiled in return, but had to admit it. "No, you're right. Nobby's more…" He tailed off. Hunt tried. "Nobby is…" A thousand images filled both their minds, none of them particularly savoury. There was silence. As usual when anyone tried to describe Nobby Nobbs, words were inadequate.

Vimes rubbed his forehead and returned to something slightly more quantifiable. "Useful in a fight, though, that Ray of yours. More useful than Fred. More like Detritus."

"That bloody great walking rock? Carries some sort of...crossbow thing?"

"That's him. Damn good sergeant. More than a few times I've been very glad to have him with me."

His companion pictured the granite features, the immovable, patient strength. "I bet you have".

"Fred Colon has his uses, though", Vimes continued. "He's done the job for so long, he's got a feel for things. Got a bit of that street instinct we were talking about."

"Yeah."

"And even Nobby," Vimes continued "well… it's sometimes handy that if any small object of value has gone astray, you've got a damn good idea who's taken it."

Hunt laughed and knocked back the last of his whisky. He eyed the other man, looked at his watch and said "Better be getting back I suppose."

The grey eyes glinted. "Yes. I'll be glad to get back." _To my city. Where I belong. You can keep London._

Hunt frowned for a moment. "Look, I dunno how, seem to have ended up with this thing." He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out the Disorganiser. "This yours? Might have something to do with…what's been happening."

Vimes' face had fallen when he saw the device. "Oh. Yes, it's mine. Thanks."

"No problem. Though I must say, if it was mine, I'd have taken a hammer to the flamin' thing by now. Irritating little twonk in there."

Vimes sighed in resignation. "Yes, I know. I keep trying to lose them, but my wife always buys me another one…Anyway, this'll be yours, then." He produced a small, fat, black folder with the word 'Filofax' on the front.

Hunt snorted. "Oh, that. Some poncey new idea, all the lawyers and city wankers have 'em. Superintendent decided we all needed them. Never use the bloody thing."

"No, but I think you'd better take it. Might be something to do with getting back."

Hunt grunted "OK." He stood up and put the Filofax in his pocket. Vimes followed suit and they headed towards the door, then turned to face each other again. Vimes sighed. The thought kept nagging him, it wouldn't go away; he couldn't leave without saying something, even though gods knew he was the last person to offer advice on this sort of thing…

"Look, you know what I was saying about Angua? That for a while she kept saying she'd have to leave, that she didn't fit in?"

The blue eyes looked up, curious in spite of himself. "Yes?"

"Well, I think she stays mainly because she's got someone to stay for. She's got Carrot." _Am I making my point here? I really, really don't want to have to spell this out…_

"Got someone. Right." The answer was muttered, embarrassed. Hunt looked at the floor.

_All right, I think you got that. _Vimes looked into the younger man's face and extended his hand. "Well…all the best…" He found the important thing to say: "Keep doing the job."

Hunt made eye contact. "Yeah. You too." They shook, more warmly this time, then Vimes turned, his cloak swinging, and headed outside.

He found himself in a narrow backstreet of Ankh-Morpork, somewhere near The Shades. Glancing up at the sky, he oriented himself and set off back to the station, pleased to feel the cobbles of his own city under his boots again.

Hunt stayed in the pub a moment longer, staring at the floor, lost in thought. He pursed his lips and exhaled slowly through them. Then with a determined sniff his head came up; he jutted his chin, squared his shoulders and walked out into East London.


End file.
